Ain't No Casablanca
by Saucery
Summary: Agents D and S save the world. Again. A 'Men in Black' fusion for everyone that has ever wanted to see Derek and Stiles in matching black suits!


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* * *

**AIN'T NO CASABLANCA**

* * *

Stiles slurps his slurpie, because slurpies are made to be slurped. The waitress, a pretty Thai girl with tentacles sprouting out of her back (damn, but half-alien chicks are _hot_ - especially when they're also half-cephalopods capable of enacting every depraved fantasy of multiple penetration you have ever had, not that Stiles has had many, if by many you mean few), slides a plate of fried hopefully-chicken toward him with one tentacle, even as she slides two more plates of hopefully-peanuts and hopefully-crackers at the two other customers.

At least one of those peanuts is... stirring.

Stiles chooses not to pay attention to it. Selective hearing ain't enough for this job; you need selective _consciousness_. Unfortunately, they're not allowed to use neuralyzers on themselves, so. Consciousness. Selective.

Going with that theme, Stiles bites his hopefully-chicken-finger-and-not-actual-finger, and grins.

Derek glowers at the waitress like a very badly disguised Terminator. All that's missing is the glowing red eyes.

"You do know we're not here to arrest anyone," Stiles reminds him, because he has to. "_Or_ kill anyone."

"We must always be prepared to arrest and/or kill at a moment's notice."

"Did you seriously just say 'and/or'? Who _says_ that?"

"You do. In fact, you just did."

"Ha bloody ha. Real funny. Oh, and the fact that I said the word 'bloody'? Doesn't mean you get to _make_ this place bloody. Capisce?"

"Stop mispronouncing Italian words. It's a disgrace."

"What's disgraceful about it?"

"We're supposed to be able to speak four-hundred-and-eighty-eight alien languages fluently, and you can't even master Italian."

"Hey, I can speak Zirkonian fluently enough to arrange a ten-member - and yes, that means ten-penis - wedding on Planet Zirkon while also convincing the planet's Head - and yes, that means dickhead, literally _and_ metaphorically - to make peace with the Brolians _on our terms_."

"That was an accident."

"Who instigates massive planet-wide orgies by accident?"

"You do. In fact, you just did. Yesterday."

"Are you complimenting me? Was that a compliment? Let me die now."

"I won't."

"Huh?"

"Let you die."

Stiles stares.

"Now. Or in the future. Or in the past, should a time-skip or temporal phase occur as the result of one of our missions."

Stiles... has no words. For a while. For a second. Two seconds.

Derek studies the menu. He's completely expressionless behind his sunglasses, like he hasn't just -

Hasn't -

Stiles's heart is _pounding_ -

Three seconds.

Four.

"Um," he says, finally, because if he's silent any longer, the fabric of space-time might warp and the sun might crash into the earth, or something. "Uh." His voice sticks in his throat. "I, uh. Did we just have a J/K moment? Like, from the history books?"

"Agents J and K had their own partnership. We have ours."

"Are you telling me not to compare our marriage to anyone else's? Is that it, D? Were you reading the _Cosmo_ magazines outside Agent L's office, while waiting to get our orders?"

Derek shrugs, turning the menu over. "Wasn't much else to do."

And Stiles is staring. Again. "Did. Did you just make a _joke_?"

Derek looks up at him, still expressionless. Even his eyebrows aren't sending secret, traitorous messages, like they sometimes do when they're colluding with Stiles against their own master. "No." The word is solid. Like a _rock_.

"Oh," says Stiles, weakly. "Of course. I just. There's nothing wrong with a grown man reading _Cosmo_. Not if it's a buff man with shoulders wide enough to carry the Empire State Building - the real one, currently being held hostage by alien mermen several leagues under the sea, and not the fake holographic one currently gracing the city of New York."

"I work out."

"You sure do. Hell, you don't just work out with the weights; the weights works out with _you_."

"Hyperbole is unflattering."

"But your pants sure are. Flattering. _So_ flattering. Damn, that as...tonishing thing that you definitely do not have beneath your spine and above your legs that starts with an 'a' and ends with a double 's'. Uh-huh. Totally not that. Er. Don't kill me?"

"I just said I wouldn't let you die."

"Yeah, but die is a passive word. _Kill_ is active. And you're glaring at me. That makes it very, very active."

"You need to revise your grammar lessons. And I'm not glaring."

"Dude, your eyebrows are so low, they're practically doing the limbo under the central axis of your face."

"That isn't anatomically possible."

"Not only is it possible, it's the Limbo of Death."

Derek grunts, and his eyebrows... float back up. Like inflatable lifeboats. Lifeboats for Stiles to get away on, away from the sinking ship of this conversation. The sinking _Titanic_ of this conversation. Jesus. That ship is doomed. Stiles is the idiotic captain. Derek is the iceberg. The very hot iceberg. Except that icebergs can't actually be that hot, y'know, because they'd melt.

Yeah, Stiles's brain isn't making any sense, right now.

When does it ever?

Then, as if to prove it, his brain comes up with this sparkling gem of tact: "You ever realize that our partnership kind of sounds like a kinky sadomasochistic abbreviation?"

Derek barely notices him. He's studying the menu, again, probably translating it into the fifty different dialects of Hosnari just as a personal challenge. To keep himself sharp. Or whatever. Even though, if Derek gets any sharper, he'll end up _slicing the air_.

"I mean, like, J/K were the joking duo. In leetspeak, j/k means 'just kidding' or 'joking', doesn't it? Not that their _partnership_ was a joke, J and K had a great partnership, it was no joking matter, no disrespect intended," Stiles babbles, when he notices Derek's back _tense_.

Derek relaxes. Slowly. It's hilarious, how much of a man-crush he has on the Best Agents That Ever Agented. Especially Agent K. Oh, K. Stiles can just imagine Derek keeping a huge photo of K in his apartment, ensconced in a creepy candle-lit shrine before which he performs a proper Japanese obeisance each morning, after lighting sticks of incense and slaughtering a small animal in K's honor.

All Stiles has to do is make sure that _Stiles_ isn't that small animal. And the way to make sure of that? Is to _never_ insult J and K. Ever. "But, uh, moving on. My point was - we're D and S, right? D/S. Dominance and submission. Heh."

Derek doesn't laugh.

Well, okay, Derek _never_ laughs, but Derek's eyebrows aren't laughing, either. On the inside. (Even Derek's _eyebrows_ laugh on the inside. Never on the outside, god forbid, who knows what toxins and aliens and monsters and conspiracies and nuclear holocausts and paranoid delusions are waiting on the outside?)

Eventually, Derek says: "You don't capitalize the 's'."

Stiles's pulse _stutters_. Like a flame. A tiny flame. In a storm. A violent storm. A storm named Derek. "Um?"

"It's 'D/s,' with a small 's'. If you must use sadomasochistic notation, do it correctly."

"Correctly," Stiles manages, after an eternity of attempting to regain the power of speech and mostly failing. His voice isn't just sticking to his throat, anymore; it's superglued to it. He has to rip it off like the world's toughest, meanest bandage, and the result is a breathless croak that fucking _hurts_. "Yeah. Will do."

"Good." _Boy_, Derek doesn't say, but he doesn't have to. Stiles hears it, anyway.

"How... how'd you know I was capitalizing it?"

"I always know."

"Because you're telepathic."

"Because you're transparent. It makes you a terrible agent."

"But an _awesome_ partner. Fun to boss around, huh, D? With a capital 'D'?"

Derek pushes his glasses further up his nose. And, yeah, _now_ his eyebrows are laughing. "Yes."

Score.

But then, before Stiles can gloat eloquently and at length about his Pyrrhic victory, their contact arrives.

Ambassador Milakrovizosniarvic of the planet Kolomandaristalopinar strolls in the door, in an ironic stroller, with a dummy plugged into his mouth. He has the body of a six-month-old baby (not that Stiles is good with baby-ages; they all look like potato-heads, to him) and the slitted eyes of a cat.

His caretaker-bodyguard, a tall woman that's most likely from Vularin, the intergalactic and interdimensional guild of assassins, methodically removes his dummy, unhooks him from the stroller and sets him down on the bar, where he stands up, helps himself to a hopefully-not-finger, and smiles.

With _teeth_.

Lots and lots of very pointy, very red teeth.

Red, because the Kolomandaristalopinarians love their raw beef.

Their _extremely_ raw beef. As in, raw enough to still be on the living cow when they eat it.

Yuck.

At the merest sight of those teeth, the two other we're-not-aliens-no-really customers take the opportunity to disappear. Discreetly.

The doorbell tinkles as they make their escape.

"Too overcooked, this," says Milakrovizosniarvic, surveying the chicken-or-maybe-soy-or-maybe-just-space-dung finger critically.

"We're sorry we can't provide appropriate refreshments," Derek says, smoothly, smiling his own urbane, scarily carnivorous smile. For a moment, Stiles isn't sure whose smile is scarier - but then he remembers that Milakrovizosniarvic only agreed to be their informant because Derek pulverized the ambassador's previous army of bodyguards with his _bare fists_, and, yeah. Derek is scarier. _Way_ scarier.

That's why the ambassador only bothered to bring one bodyguard, this time. As a show of respect. Or frugality. Why waste money on a gazillion bodyguards when no number of them, no matter how extravagant, will suffice? Not against Agent D of the MIB?

"Yeah, what he said," Stiles adds, braver because Derek's on _his_ side. "So sorry. It's tragic."

Milakrovizosniarvic's eyes narrow. A hiss more like a snake's than a cat's emerges from him, and the bodyguard wipes some drool from his chin. "Do you want the information, or not?"

They want the information.

Turns out, the Kolomandaristalopinarians are on the brink of staging a rebellion that's only about a week away from coming to fruition, and if it does, the Xinian Empire won't have any choice but to hand over the responsibility of the Kolomandaristalopinarian government back to the Kolomandaristalopinarians, to be ruled by the people, for the people. And all that jazz.

The Kolomandaristalopinarians are horrible douchebags with appalling dietary habits, but at least they don't eat _humans_. Their independence is preferable to the continuing rule and growing military might of the Xinians, who _do_ eat humans. With mayonnaise. The Xinians have a thing for mayonnaise.

Milakrovizosniarvic demands arms. Weapons-arms, not arms-arms, as in, not limbs. Belonging to people.

Derek offers several thousand kilotons of the finest explosives on the market.

Milakrovizosniarvic points out that what's on the market isn't the best that Earth has. The _best_ that Earth has is with the Men in Black.

Derek smiles. Again.

Milakrovizosniarvic smiles right back.

They engage in a contest of 'my smile is more menacing than yours, damn right, it's more menacing than yours, I can teach you, but I have to charge' for about fifteen minutes, after which Milakrovizosniarvic - unsurprisingly - caves.

Derek pretends to be polite by apologizing for the fact that classified MIB technology is not on offer. But surely the Kolomandaristalopinarians are not so incompetent and weak as to be unable to stage a simple rebellion without that much firepower?

Stiles interrupts to explain that, truthfully, Derek's paying the Kolomandaristalopinarians a compliment by emphasizing how mighty and clever and super-competent they are.

The ambassador cuts him a glance. A very cutting glance. That cuts.

Stiles shuts up.

About an hour later, after the waitress has repeatedly attempted to flirt with Milakrovizosniarvic (it figures that her type is flesh-eating infant, it just _figures_), they call it a day, and Milakrovizosniarvic's bodyguard puts him back in the stroller and wheels him out the door.

"Another day, another interplanetary crisis averted," Stiles yawns, and stretches.

"Not yet," Derek growls, because he always _growls_ after negotiations and diplomatic missions, as though having to talk like a civilized person for an extended period of time just makes him want to tear off his suit, put on a loincloth, grab the nearest Stiles-shaped club and go roaring into the wilderness. Speaking of which, the loincloth would be sexy. Real sexy. Albeit in a tacky kind of way, like a _Star Trek_ episode set on a pseudo-historical alien planet in which everybody is inexplicably nekkid. Or half-nekkid. And oiled. Derek, oiled and in a loincloth. Mm. (Why, hello there, Mr. Hard-On. We'll take care of you, tonight. Alone. With our right hand. Our lonely right hand. And some lube. Because Derek's abs _would_ feel that slippery, with oil on 'em.)

"Eh, you know they'll beat the Xinians. It's a done deal, with the blueprints we're also going to be handing them. The blueprints of the Xinian command base, c'mon."

"Blueprints that you acquired," Derek says, and just like that, his growl is gone. He looks - _approving_ isn't the word, because 'approving' isn't _a_ word in Derek's dictionary, but - something. Something vaguely non-murderous. Maybe even fond. Okay, no. But maybe.

If Derek and Stiles were dating - which they're not, except in in Stiles's fevered imagination - this would be a case of, 'Doctor, help! Agent D is coming down with a severe case of Bedroom Eyes!' Except that a) Stiles can't see Derek's eyes through those goddamn sunglasses, and b) Derek would never give him bedroom eyes. Not even if they were in a bedroom, and could see each others' eyes.

Damn.

Life sucks, sometimes. It sucks like a _pro_. It sucks like Stiles would like to suck on Derek's -

"We should go," Derek murmurs, giving Stiles an odd sort of once-over, the sort that usually only happens when there's been gunfire or laser-fire and Stiles may have been hit, and Derek's scanning him for damage with his Terminator eyes.

"Go, we should," Stiles says, in his Yoda-voice, and hops off his barstool. "Update the agency with our mission status, we must."

"Stop that."

"The Jedi Council, anxious will be."

"_Stop_."

"No."

"Agent s," says Derek, and the 's' is so _obviously_ a little 's' that Stiles _does_ stop. Everything about him stops.

And starts, again, a couple seconds later, when Derek cups a hand under his elbow and gently guides them to the car, like Stiles is unstable or fragile and may vanish into a cross-dimensional vortex if Derek lets him go.

The car this time is Derek's Camaro, which Stiles doesn't like nearly as much as his own Jeep, mostly because the Camaro's a beast on four wheels and four fusion-powered jet engines, which is ridiculous and clearly overcompensation for _something_, whereas Stiles's Jeep is honest and rugged and gets the job done. Even with a decades-old propulsion engine pulled from a dismantled cargo plane. Yep.

"Your dick is small," Stiles snaps, viciously, as he gets in and straps on the seatbelt.

"No, it isn't," Derek counters, still weirdly patient, and pulls out into the street at a speed that obeys the traffic rules _and_common decency.

Miracles do happen. "I believe in miracles," Stiles is obliged to say. "You sexy thing."

"You're contradicting yourself."

"Why? Small dicks can absolutely be sexy. Don't sell yourself, heh, _short_. Agent D."

"On our next mission to Corvidine, I'm going to leave you to the crows."

"You _wouldn't_," Stiles gasps.

"I will."

"I thought you said you'd never let me die!"

"I didn't say I wouldn't let you suffer."

There's something... fraught about that. About how Derek _says_ that. Fraught and - and _hungry_, and -

It makes Stiles's hormones do inconvenient somersaults in his bloodstream, like trapeze artists rehearsing for the gala opening night of a lifetime, except, yeah, no. No gala night here, folks. There ain't even a circus. Pack up and go home. "Promises, promises," says Stiles, past the tightness in his chest.

"I don't do promises," Derek says. "I do threats."

Oh.

Stiles's heart is _not_ jackhammering. It's just not. Stiles's body isn't a freakin' construction site. No matter that Derek seems to think it is. Not that Derek thinks much about it, at all. This is clearly not a flirtation in progress, here. Crimes? Crimes are in progress. Interspecies crimes, even. Crimes they're out to prevent or solve, depending on the mission specs, and today's mission specs did _not_ include 'torment your hapless younger partner with possibly sexual innuendo'. Did they?

No, they did not.

Stiles must stand firm.

Stiles's dick however, must _not_. Stand firm. On anything. But particularly on his lap, where it's easily visible, should Derek care to look, not that he'd ever look, why would he ever look at it? If Stiles's dick were a drowning swimmer caught in a riptide and desperately flailing its arms, Derek would be the unconcerned lifeguard who'd just think it was waving hello. No need of rescue, at all. As far as Stiles's dick is concerned, it's a non-entity in their partnership. Derek would spit on it as soon as -

Spit -

Uh.

Lick -

No.

Stroke -

"You look like you're having a stroke," Derek observes, in supernaturally perfect deadpan, like he's attended Xavier's School for Gifted Deadpanners and graduated with a valedictorian's trophy that's shaped like a cross between a gravestone and a pan, subtly and artistically symbolizing both death and pannishness. For the dead is nothing without the pan.

"I wish I _were_," Stiles chokes out, and immediately flushes, horrified by what he's just said.

Derek just... pulls over, calm as can be, shuts off the ignition, and unbuckles his seatbelt. And Stiles's, when Stiles shows no sign of moving, instead choosing to plaster himself against the back of his seat, in the vain hope that it will either swallow him up like Derek will _never_ swallow him up (or down), or that it'll become maliciously sentient and will smother him until he mercifully passes out. Or dies. Not that Derek will ever let him die. Bastard.

"Well?" asks Derek, after Stiles has been sitting there for incalculable minutes, doing his best impression of a thing that is not there. Or here. Or anywhere.

Not a very convincing impression, then, if Derek can see right through it. Like he sees through everything. _Bastard_. "What?" Stiles rasps. He's so embarrassed and humiliated and also petrified that he's scarcely audible.

"We're here."

"Where's here? ...Ohshit," Stiles says, when he looks out the window and sees the familiar shape of his cheap, rundown apartment building.

"It's time," Derek announces, in a very announce-y, proclaiming-the-constitution kind of tone, "for you to learn, in person, that I always carry out my threats. It's what makes me an effective agent."

"It's what makes you a sadist," Stiles retorts, hoping against hope that it's _true_. He climbs out of the car, on wobbly legs, and ignores Derek's smirk as they make it up the elevator. This isn't happening. It just _isn't_. The cephalopod waitress must've spiked his drink with hallucinosis-inducing squid-ink, or something, and none of this is real. Derek isn't following him into his room, or backing him up against the wall, or tugging his tie _off_, with a slither that sounds like the loudest whisper in the world.

"If I were a sadist, I wouldn't do this," Derek says, and then proceeds to demonstrate how much of a sadist he really... isn't. Is. Isn't.

The jury's still out on that.

And it _remains_ out - out of the solar system, even - when Derek's belt finds a new purpose in life around Stiles's wrists, and Stiles's knees find a new purpose in life at Derek's feet, and their hearts find a new purpose in life, beating in time, pressed together through their sweat-slick chests.

"Y'r a s'd'st," Stiles mumbles, unable to do so much as _twitch_, because every single movement his body could ever make has been wrung out of him, thoroughly and almost _dutifully_, over the past... however-many hours. It's light out, but only because it was dark, _before_. And light before that, when they first got here.

"Hm," says Derek, which isn't agreement or disagreement, and his eyes are _so_ much better without the sunglasses, it's surreal. Maybe this is that wish-fulfilling holosuite Stiles hadn't bought from that dodgy alien because it was illegal and also immoral to make his sexually and romantically uninterested partner the star of his very own virtual unreality.

"If th's is real," Stiles continues, still stumbling through his sentences like a blind man, even though he's no longer blindfolded (Derek's tie had found a new purpose in life, _too_), "th'n L w'll k'll us. Cr't'v'ly."

"I told you I wouldn't let you die," Derek says, in the long-suffering manner of someone who's getting sick of repeating himself. "And I'm more creative than she is."

Can't argue with that. Stiles has been a first-hand witness to Derek's monumental creativity. Where 'monument' can be aptly and accurately replaced with 'magnum,' 'manhood' or 'giant penis'.

"Go to sleep," Derek commands. _Commands_, like -

Stiles's dick tries valiantly to make a comeback -

But it can't, it just _can't_, not even if Jesus himself returned to raise it, Lazarus-like, from the grave.

Oh, crap, he's become one of those people that has no boundaries. He's committing sacrilege. Although, the buttsex? Is sacrilegious enough, when he thinks about it. And he _is_ thinking about it. He'll be thinking about it and his brain will be thinking about it, as long as they both shall live.

"_Sleep_, Agent s," and maybe it's the little 's' that does it, because Stiles -

Stiles sleeps.

* * *

**fin.**


End file.
